


Sorry SOB

by Brennah_K



Category: Hawaii 5-O, NCIS, Pre-NCIS Los Angeles, The X-Files
Genre: Delusions of unrequited romance, Implied Non-Con/Rape - offscreen, M/M, Recovery, Severe Hurt/Comfort, Tony!Whump, UST, What happens on board stays on board, guilt complexes, self-neglect bordering on self-harm, unjustified jealously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:33:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brennah_K/pseuds/Brennah_K
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gibbs had promised that he was doing what he could to get Tony off the USS Sea Hawk, but Tony had given up hoping for that miracle barely a week after he’d been assigned. He had been an investigator for too long not to know that, even though he hadn’t gotten to the bottom of the corrupt, rotting and maggot-ridden chest of secrets, buried somewhere in the ships entrails, he wouldn’t be getting off the ship alive. Already under constant watch, with every communication monitored, and subjected to horrific harassment and very obvious but unspoken death threats, when the announcement is made that the Sea Hawk would be docking for refitting and shore leave, Tony suspected that he would be ‘sleeping with the fish’ by midnight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“God, you’re sooo screwed.” Tony groaned dropping his head to his desk as the NCIS internal Database flickered dead, barely two seconds after he’d finished typing the name of Sea Hawk’s commanding admiral into the search field. 

He wasn’t exactly surprised that he’d been caught; in fact, he’d been surprised that the system had even booted up for him in the first place. The Admiral had someone in the radio room keeping a close watch on every radio call, computer search Tony made, and one of his harassers in the room but out of camera range during every message from Gibbs. Close enough to cut him off thirty seconds before he could work up a decent set of clues from whatever their current conversations were to tip off his boss that things were rotten in Denmark. 

He should have realized that it was probably a test to see if their … intimidation campaign … for lack of a better phrase… had done its trick, not that that would have ensured that he would have been given a chance to get of the ship if it had, but now it was a certainty. Not only had his rash reaction to the announcement - that the Sea Hawk would be docking in Maui for a refit and shore leave - doomed his chances of getting off ship, but they had been very dedicated in inflicting consequences for bucking their system. He shuddered at the thought of going through another round before they wore themselves and him out – and dumped him overboard with a staged ‘accidental fall and blow to the skull’ to cover their other assaults if his bloated and carrion fish-ravaged body ever got close enough to the pacific coast to wash on-shore.  It was a shame too; before he’d discovered that the command staff was up to no good, Tony had actually looked forward to the prospect of touring the Hawaiian Isles and visiting all of Magnum PI’s filming locations. 

Too bad Magnum wasn’t a real guy; Tony really could have used a gun-toting, rule-breaking Seal, on his six, with an island network that could keep him out of his shipmates’ line of sight long enough to get word to Gibbs that the USS Sea Hawk’s command was all kinds of hinky... and if he could have found a place to hide and pull himself together, at least enough that he didn’t jump at loud noises and careless brushes or start trembling when lights cut, that would have been good, too. No way did he want Gibbs to see him like this. 

The boss might still be pissed at him over what happened with Shepard, but Gibbs was pretty stubborn about how his people were treated, and no one seemed to have the right to make their lives hell, except Gibbs, himself. The last thing anyone needed was the boss going off half-cocked on a revenge campaign or unnecessarily risking his life as he had with Ari. Tony hadn’t been able to discover much about the admiral and what he was doing, but one thing he had discovered was that the Admiral – like most of his rank – was seriously well-connected… like SecNav well-connected. 

Behind him, the previously-locked latch opened quietly, proving his suspicion that at least one of his suspects had the security codes for open access to all quarters. Lifting his head, Tony steeled himself for their quick assault, realizing that he wasn’t going to be given the chance to get out of his seat, but the cord wrapping around his throat still caught him by surprise. He clawed at the braided cord as it tightened, cutting off his air supply, forcing his still-damaged lungs to fight for every breath, until the relentless pressure finally stole his consciousness and he slumped into his assailant’s embrace. 

ブレンキン

“Steve, God Damn it! Will you PLEASE answer your phone?” Danny Williams demanded as Steve tried to ignore the annoying caller, who’d had the bad timing to call right at the start of a briefing and the stubbornness to stay on or redial so quickly that it effectively circumvented the voice mail system. 

Kono snickered in the background, and Chin just raised an eyebrow waiting either for Steve’s outburst or response. 

Shoving down his embarrassment, Steve punched the button to run the phone to speaker and answered it curtly. He couldn’t deny he was curious. It wasn’t from dispatch or any of their other internal numbers; he used a different dial tone for those. The same applied to phone calls from the Governor, his Seal commander, and his sister Mary, but he couldn’t think of anyone else who would be calling so determinately. 

“You Sorry Son of a Bitch, why the hell are you making me wait so long for an answer?” A man’s voice on the other end of the phone answered far too casually, both for the man, and for the fact that he’d made the call ring at least ten minutes, 

“Hanna? What the hell are you doing calling me at work? Are you in port?”

“Nah, not yet, but we’ll be there soon enough, tomorrow ten o’clock at the latest, so I’ve got a favor to ask of you.”

“Shoot.” Steve responded grimly, the fact that Hanna had called him at work for a favor telling him the type of help his former team mate was going to request.

“So, it will probably take me two hours to clear receiving, but after that, do you think you could get me in with one of your dentist friends? I’ve got a broken crown I’d like to get taken care of.”

“You could go to the base doc’s you know?” 

“Nah, something about knowing we’re military seems to make ‘em think we want ‘em to go drilling for pleasure, forget the Novocain.  I want one of those gentle laid-back islanders you brag about. “

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks man, I really appreciate it, but don’t be late, okay?  I bit down on it earlier and thought I was going to lose it completely.”

“Tomorrow then?”

“Yeah, tomorrow.”

“Later Brau.”

“Whatever…” the man on the other end cut the conversation off with a laugh. 

Looking up, Steve was startled to see the others staring at him with mixed expressions of dread and confusion. 

“Kono, run the files down to dispatch and get back up here quick. “ 

He raised a hand to forestall their questions, and explained, “Give me a minute, and I’ll explain when she gets back.”

Flipping his cellphone out, he quickly dialed in the code to trigger the encryption function and started almost before the Governor answered, “Governor, it looks like we’ve got a problem headed our way. I’ve just been called in to make an extraction outside of channels – low profile and only my team.”

“Is that the only information you have?” she asked impatiently.

“No, Governor, the extraction is for an injured federal agent, but that’s about all I do know at this moment. I need to ask for access to the drug task force’s equipment and silhouette.”

“Your request is pretty thin on information for a request like that?’  

“If we wait for more information, it will probably be from the agent’s body washing ashore, Governor.”

“Subtle.” She retorted grimly. 

“We don’t have time for subtle.” 

“Very well, but your report will be best received if it’s made in person, very  detailed, and does not end up with me being asked to explain myself before a panel of the top military officials in the islands…. For a second time.” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Steve answered with an amused smirk. 

He’d been prepared to ‘misappropriate’ the silhouette, if she hadn’t given her approval , and deal with the consequences afterward, but the time her approval saved was worth the call. 

Her slightly sarcastic assurance that she was looking forward to his report ended the conversation, and he turned back to his team – expecting Chin’s raised eyebrow and Kono’s questioning expression, but not the frustrated almost angry expression on Danny’s. 

“Care to tell me how we go from looking into the death of an IA officer investigating the loss of 50 keys of coke from the evidence locker to a covert operation using HPD resources on the basis of a phone call about a dentist?”

“The message was clearly coded.” Chin offered helpfully. 

“I kind of figured that out, Chin, thanks, “ Danny grimaced. “I want to know what the code meant, who it was from, where exactly we’re extracting the agent from, and how did you know it was about a federal agent anyway?” 

“Fine. Get your gear. I’ll catch you up on the way.” 

“On the way where?”

“Weren’t you listening? To the silhouette’s dock, we’ve got about just under two hours to get in place.” 

“And just WHERE is ‘IN PLACE’?!?”

“Don’t know yet, I’ll find out on the way.” 

“STEVE!”  Danny protest in a tone that promised a significant pout during their ride to the docs. 

“Get your ass in gear Danno, and you’ll find out just as soon as I do.” Steve promised, trying to stifle his amusement. He couldn’t help it. He’d never admit it to Danny’s face – he’d probably get shot if he did- but when Danny started squawking about him running off half-cocked, not even knowing where he was going, it always set of a soft spot for Steve. As much as Danny complained about working with him, called him reckless and irresponsible, his partner clearly cared about Steve; he wouldn’t get so mad otherwise, especially when it was just Steve going off on his own.

“Doesn’t ANYONE else think this is insane? Just running off without a clue in hell where we’re going?”

And there _IT_ was: the exact phrase that made Steve have to hide his smile when Danny started to rant; he glanced away, his gaze catching with Kono’s knowing eyes, and he fought to suppress it further.  Kono might have caught on to his affection, and he was sure she had from the sometimes amused, sometimes sympathetic glances she gave him when some of Danny’s comments caught him off guard – sometimes for the better, sometimes not.  He could never let Danny catch on, though. 

Steve was under no allusion to how his partner would react if he realized Steve’s feelings for him. Steve had worked with too many uptight officers, both on the force and in the Seals, to not know how they reacted to the slightest hint of homoerotic feelings… and Steve’s feelings were miles beyond the slightest hint. 

“Steve, Brau, we’re ready.”  Chin brought Steve out of his thoughts, wearing his silent “do you need to talk?” expression.

“Okay, Fine, let’s move.” Steve answered with a shake of his head. As they made their way down to the garage, he pulled out his phone and made the calls needed to find out, without leaving a trace, what ship Hanna was currently listed on and where that ship would be in two hours. 

Thankfully, the Governor’s permission had reached the docs before Steve and his team, so the silhouette was gassed and ready, loaded with more equipment than Steve could have anticipated, including five dive suits and tanks, plus two emergency tanks.

“Suit up everybody; yes, that means you too, Danno. I’m not planning on either you or Kono to be in the water, but it’s better if you’re suited up, in case you have to go over for any reason.”

Danny groused, but complied, and asked him if he could finally explain the code. 

“Sure, Danny, Hanna and I made up a handful of scenarios to cover various possible missions.  As short as his message was, it was pretty thickly layered.  A trip to the dentist means an extraction; that he couldn’t go to the base dentists implies he’s worried about someone on the inside, a mole, or at least surveillance on the inside. That he wanted a laid back islander – suggests it was the former, and he asked me to pick people I trusted…”

“The choice of tooth reflects who the extraction is: a cavity is the suspect; a root canal is a corrupt official; a molar is a soldier or officer; a crown is an agent; a gold crown is a foreign agent; a wisdom tooth is a leader; impacted means they have a guard; broken, cracked, or chipped refers to how seriously they’re injured. That he’d ‘like to get it taken care of’ says the extraction’s a good man, otherwise, he’d have said the tooth was a pain and he’d like to get rid of it. That he had bitten down on it and was afraid he’d lose it – tells me that he was forced to hurt or incapacitate the agent he was trying to protect down to keep him from being killed outright. “ 

“Okay, I can see how all of those make sense, but how does that give you the extraction’s location?”

“He said when his ship was going to arrive, which let me pinpoint which ship he’s on; the guy I called can be trusted to keep a secret, by the way, and he pulled up their location and projected it for two hours from the call. “

“Okay, so we’re headed out there to what, board the boat? It’s not even dark out, how are we supposed to slip on…”

“Nope. Remember how he said not to be late and that it’d take two hours to clear receiving?” Steve shook his head already knowing how Danny was going to take what he had to say next. 

“Yeaaah?” Danny replied hesitantly, clearly suspecting that he wasn’t going to like it either. 

“He said he’d clear receiving so we won’t have to worry about contact with the suspects; they would be gone by the two hour point. “

“You’re not telling me that … for christ’s sake, tell me that you’re not saying your friend’s going to dump a seriously injured federal agent into the ocean? And I thought you were psycho.”

As many times as Danny had said it before, that time stung, and though he hid it well enough from Danny, he knew from Chin’s narrowed gaze that his friend had seen it. 

Chin was discreet though and simply responded in a soft, casual tone, “deep-cover operatives are not always able to help the innocents, and unlucky bystanders they run across, without jeopardizing the operation and putting a greater number of innocents to risk.”

Danny nodded, running a nervous hand through his short hair spiking it even further in his frustration, “Yeah, Christ… Christ, I know that... I just…It’s just these are the kind of cases I hate, the ones that aren’t even cases, but we’re working them because people who are supposed to be dedicated to their jobs and countries decide that everything they’ve been taught and trained for isn’t worth shit, and they don’t just turn on the people they’re supposed to protect but the ones they’ve fought and trained beside, too, and then men like Steve and his friend, and probably the agent we’re going after, are called in to fix matters without regard because someone has to do the dirty work, but when is it going to be his friend that’s dumped in the middle of the fucking ocean, in hopes that Steve or someone else will get there in time? When will it be Steve?”

Steve turned away from him, his eyes misting up slightly as he tried to keep Danny from seeing the effect of his comments. Of course he’d known that Danny worried about him; Danny’s none to infrequent tantrums had been enough to tell him that, but to hear the thoughts behind them, was something else again.  

ブレンキン

Groaning through his abused throat, Tony weakly rolled from his back to his side then over onto his knees, gasping into the thin narrow gaps in the cold metal grate covering the pipe to a drain tank. As he watched, the valve to the pipe shut, and down the tube, he heard another opening. He had been beaten up enough times before to know that unconsciousness could be a blessed relief, but this was the first time in his memory that waking up alone, with a chance to escape hasn’t been quite the relief he’d thought it would be.

Fighting the urge to vomit from the pain and dizziness that plagued each move, Tony began to push himself with his knees down the tube. He still wasn’t fully conscious enough to have the coordination or strength he get his hands and knees under himself, but knew without question that he didn’t have time to wait until the numbness left his uncoordinated limbs.

After his attackers, including the admiral, himself, had all taken ‘one last shot at him’, the man with the cord did his job again, strangling him almost to unconsciousness for a second time, before hefting his body in a fireman’s carry. As he carried Tony down the hall, he hissed warnings so quietly that Tony, whose head was at the man’s shoulder, could barely hear it, and the men accompanying them, jostling and laughing as if they were all engaged in a juvenile prank, were overacting so thoroughly that they couldn’t have heard it either. 

“…Possum til the breech door shuts…”

“Your best chance …”

“make it to the muzzle door…”

 “-ey fill the tube… “

“ –ld your brea—…”

“ride the water jam, then start swimming.”

“… extraction. McGarrett…”

“A dickhead, but a good man.” 

Whatever other warnings his strangely helpful strangler may have given him went unheard as the effects of his attacker’s rough treatment, two stranglings, and the pressure of the man’s shoulder on Tony’s ribcage (compressing his still weakened lungs), caused him to black out again. 

He didn’t even feel it when they dumped him into what he now recognized, with a dizzying swell of dread, as a torpedo tube… answering his earlier mental question about how they intended to stage an accidental drowning and dump his body before dark. 

He was barely halfway down the tube when the overhead valve opened and water began to pour in to the narrow tunnel. 


	2. Chapter 2

Staying conscious after the water jam threw him out of the torpedo tube turned out to be far easier than Tony had anticipated. Between fighting the panic, rapidly threatening to overtake him; concentrating on going with the force of the water until he could get free of it without expending unnecessary energy; and trying to figure out what his best next options were, Tony was riding a surge of adrenaline that kept him almost alert and mostly conscious until he finally broke the surface. 

As much as he loved watching Magnum, this was one of the episodes that he had never hoped to emulate; even when he'd first watched the episode, with Magnum treading water for what was supposed to – metaphorically - seem like hours on end, for his father's approval, the plot had struck a little too close to home to be comfortable. Coupled with the certain knowledge that his survival wouldn't be guaranteed, no matter how long he was able to do it, whether he could beat Magnum's supposed records or not (and really with the state of his lungs – 'not' was the winner's bet), the thought of the next few desperate hours held little appeal. 

Still, Gibbs had 'raised him up' to be a better agent than that, so when his head broke the surface, his feet were already starting to cycle... a little weakly at first... admittedly, but as he gasped for air, his strained lungs eventually fell out of spasming into a pattern of slower, still unsteady, but manageable gasps that were a little closer to exhales than pants. It took a little longer to get the rhythm of his arms right but by his tenth or fifteenth kick, Tony managed something like a rhythm that kept him roughly upright without too many dips below. 

Looking out at the expanse of ocean, Tony wasn't too surprised when he couldn't see any land masses in any direction. It wouldn't have made sense to drop him close enough to anywhere he could have possibly swum to, even if they had expected him to be unconscious. He tried to dredge his mind for the charts he had pulled up earlier in the evening in hopes of having even the most infinitesimal chance to get his bearings, but there was so little to go on: he didn't have a good idea where they had been in the approach to the islands before he'd been knocked out, he didn't know how long he'd been unconscious, nor if they'd even kept to the same approach. All in all... he was pretty certain that his first estimation had been correct: he was so screwed. Any direction he could swim might be the wrong one and mean his death, but not picking a direction and staying where he was – was a guaranteed death. 

With no other clue to guide him, Tony finally looked to the setting sun and began to swim in it's direction. Whether or not it was the right direction, Hollywood had long-ago deemed the hero riding off into the sunset a fitting end to most any movie, and who was he to say better.

Rolling onto his back to float whenever he tired, Tony struggled to swim as far as he could, but could feel exhaustion, pain, and hopelessness eating away at his reserves of energy before he thought even an hour had passed. His arms and legs started to cramp, and the stitch in his side was sinking into his ribs and stomach muscles making it more and more difficult to breath, but those pains were minimal to the growing ache high in his chest. Tony had always, always feared being alone at the end of his life, but had always been certain that he would be when 'that' moment came. That certainty had always added an edge to operations and undercover assignments when he had been forced to work without backup, sometimes making him sharper, but more often than not it was an unpleasant reminder that he was running out of time - especially given the number of times that he'd already ended up in the hospital. One of those times, when he was alone, was going to be the last time, and each time he scraped by just made it more and more likely that the next time would be 'it'.

As the cramp in his shoulders forced him to roll onto his back again, Tony tried to swallow around the constriction in his throat and couldn't; his breaths came in choking gasps, and while there was no way he was glad that he was alone at that moment – it did make it easier to accept that the water streaming down his cheek's wasn't entirely from ocean. He wasn't giving up; he couldn't give up; years ago, he'd made a promise not to give up and die... when his chances had been equally grim and he had been just as certain of losing the battle, but he wasn't lying to himself either. 

Tony knew without question that the people who might have cared enough to come looking for him had no idea that he was even in trouble and that whoever it was who had helped him must have been on a deep cover assignment and likely wouldn't have had any better chance to contact local authorities without exposing himself. There would be no last minute rescue by Gibbs; the cavalry wouldn't be coming, and the time that they might have had to save him, even if they had been on the way, was fading rapidly. Very soon, he wouldn't be able to lift his arm over his head for one more back stroke, his leg muscles would give out, the struggle to breath would sharpen as if he'd had a noose tightening around his throat, and he'd go under. 

He'd go under...

The pounding of his heartbeat in his ears, his panicked half-choked sobs, the water filling his ears and splashing against his cheeks face and mouth... threatened with every lapping wave, warning of what would happen when he slipped beneath the surface, and silenced the outer world – plunging him further into a lonely, desperate purgatory from which miserably observed the rapid drain of his reserves ever-aware of the encroaching weakness that would shortly rob him of his life. 

His senses were so consumed by his panic, so drowned out by the onset of his emotions that the first touch of skin, sliding over his chest and catching his opposite shoulder set free the barely-banked fear that he had only been holding in check to conserve his remaining strength. Panicking at the touch, he thrashed, going under, and choked on saltwater as he fought to escape the hold tightening around his neck. 

ブレンキン 

Ducking the frenzy of uncoordinated swings from the federal agent, Steve yelled out, “Shit, Chin; Grab him. Danno, get down here and help.”

After pinpointing the most likely jettison spot, Steve had considered it close to a miracle when they immediately found the agent swimming directly toward a channel of water that would have swiftly carried him further out to sea. Even as they were only yards off, and yelling to get the still swimming agent's attention, without success, Steve had been certain that they were going to pull the extraction off and without problems... until Steve finally ordered Kono to pull in close enough to the agent that Steve and Chin could reach him before his stamina ran out. That's when the the shit hit the fan, and Steve's certainty of success evaporated. 

He'd never seen a bastard fight being rescued, so hard, and truth be told, so well. Both Danny and Chin had been stunned at least once, by the agent's strikes, and Steve, had needed to move around to the man's side, after he'd barely missed being knocked out by the agent's flailing head as the man thrashed and thrashed trying to break his grip. 

Despite being obviously exhausted, hysterical, and close to drowning, the agent seemed to be fighting a fight to the death, even if it was his own, and despite his unknown injuries stood a good chance winning – either from exacerbating an internal injury, going into shock, or even getting a lucky shot in and injuring Chin or Danny to the point that they needed to be rescued. Unlike his team, the Agent wasn't holding back, and his strikes had been delivered with the intent of causing serious even fatal injury. As dangerous as it was to even consider, Steve was coming close to using a choke hold just to subdue the agent until they could get him back to shore.

Danny must have been able to read his decision from the set of his jaw, or whatever trait Danny used to read him, because - after handing the 'smelling salts' tube back to Kono, and shaking his head to clear it - Danny half-staggered down to boat's dive platform, slid into the water, and carefully moved in behind the agent, muttering, “I'll do it.”

Ignoring his sharp sense of relief, Steve nodded and caught Chin's eyes, trying to warn him of what they planned to do. 

Even as Danny's wrist came around the outside of the agent's throat, staying well away from actually touching the skin until he was ready, though, Chin was shaking his head, warning, “Not a good idea, Brau.” Following his sharp-eyed gaze to a spot Danny hadn't covered with his hand yet, Steve suddenly recognized the pattern slowly turning into a bruise. He was too late, though, in yelling for Danny to abort the choke hold, and a high terrified keen broke from the man's throat as his fight changed transformed from a nearly hysterical but frantic fight to a terrified frenzy that quickly threatened to drown them all as both Danny and Chin went under and came up choking and Steve only barely escaped being dragged under by letting go - when inspiration struck. 

Ignoring their startled and frustrated gazes as he moved back up to the agent's head, Steve caught both sides of the man's face, and before the agent could respond, closed his mouth over the agents in a gentle open-mouthed kiss that immediately caused the man to freeze. 

“I've got you,” Steve spoke into the agent's mouth catching his shoulders. “You're safe now. Just let me get you into the boat, we can get you to dry land.” 

The agent's eyes, blood shot, glazed with rheum, and pupils blown wide with fear, finally opened and settled on Steve with wary hope. 

“Wh-o?” the agent stammered weakly, beginning to sink with exhaustion. 

“'Whoa, there. Hold on now, give us a chance to get you out of the drink.” Leaving Danny and Chin to propel them toward the boat, Steve slipped his arms under the agent's pits and leaned back enough to give him better support.

“Who?” The Agent repeated. 

“Five-O.” Steve answered as he caught onto the dive platform and waited for Chin to climb up where he could help Kono pull the man in. 

“Not a name.” The agent retorted, before groaning as Chin and Kono caught him under his arms and pulled him up the platform and laid him out carefully on the deck. 

Danny and Steve followed him up, and lifted the platform closing the gap in the hull, securing it tightly so that neither their gear nor passenger could slip back into the water.

“Kono, crank her up, and get us out of here.”

“Who?” The agent insisted, catching Steve's arm as he stood to check out what first aid gear the governor had ordered. 

“Just tell him, Steve,” Danny ordered with a laugh as he unceremoniously stripped out of the dive suit, and quickly pulled on his clothes, with an expression that practically shouted, “What are you looking at?”

His own answer to the unspoken question would have probably freaked his partner out, seven ways to Sunday, so he looked back down at the man who still had his arm, and muttered, “McGarrett, I'm Steve McGarrett.”

“Dickhead...” the agent responded just loud enough to draw a snort or chuckle and a round of jibes from the other Five- O members (“You've met.”, “Sounds like he's heard of you.”, “Your reputation precedes...” ) that he answered with a flipped up finger as he gestured for Chin to bring him the blanket his officer was pulling out of a bench cabinet. 

“But, a good man.” The agent finished, in the same breath as Danny, causing Steve to glance away uncomfortably from the unexpected praise.

“Thanks.” He answered awkwardly, before pushing on, “Is it alright if I call you buddy? Hanna said we need to get you to a safe house, and it will be easier for my team not to react if someone asks if they've seen you, if they've never heard your name.” 

Steve ignored Danny's irritated frown, having learned years before that sometimes one of the biggest give-aways of a relationship was the other persons' immediate instinctive smile or frown at the mention of someone's name. Not everyone knew of the little trick, but he'd seen enough criminals try to use it to ferret out a mole often enough that he kept it in mind when working with endangered witnesses. 

“Buddy's fine.” The agent agreed, before rolling onto his side and coughing up a spew of water. 

“Come on, Buddy, let's get you out of those wet clothes, and get you warmed up.”

“Can't!” The agent shook his head frantically, hunching up over his arms as another bout of coughing wracked his shivering form. 

“Look, we've got to get you warmed up... I know, after what happened, you may not feel up to it, but we'll be careful...” Steve hedged, not ready to announce what the rest of the message had told him about what the agent had endured. 

“No!” The agent protested, before explaining, adamantly, “Have to protect trace evidence.”

“No point to it.” Danny answered unfortunately cutting Steve off before he could come up with a different response, “Any fingerprints they'd left on your clothes would have washed off … in your swim.” 

At least Danny had the sense not to mention their struggle to get him in the boat, but what he had said was more than enough to strike a nerve with the agent, who glared at his partner, as he explained in an stiffly condescending tone, “Yes, but the trace... underneath my clothing, on and … in.... in-inside … me... might not have been.”

Even Kono turned from the helm to stare at the agent, who – despite the bravado of his announcement – was now looking firmly away from their aghast stares. Only Danny wasn't staring at the agent. Instead Danny's eyes were fixed angrily on his, reading something that his partner clearly didn't like. He kept their eyes locked for several seconds before breaking away as the agent began coughing again. 

“Okay, at least, let us get you wrapped up in a couple of blankets to keep the heat you do have in.” He ordered, not brooking a rejection this time as he wrapped the agent tightly in the blankets, pounding the agent's back occasionally as the man broke into wet coughs regularly spitting up more water. 

As planned on the trip out to the jettison spot, Kono took them directly to the private dock of one of her cousins, who'd called doctor both she and Steve knew well, and knew they could trust. Thankfully, the woman had consulted and run various tests for them both on a couple of other occasions, was familiar with crime scene methods, and had privileges at the state hospital - so could officially process any of the evidence they might need while keeping it under wraps. 

When they reached the dock, Steve helped the agent into the house and returned to the dock to order his officers back to their headquarters. Before he could get the instructions out, however, Danny started in on him, “You knew! You knew what they'd done... For Christ's sake, Steve, don't you think it was something we should have known before we ganged up on him to drag him into the boat? No wonder he freaked out the way he did... after being gang r – “ 

“I didn't say...” Steve retorted angrily, waiting for his partner to come to his senses. 

“It didn't take much to figure out from your fucking code, Steve. Your friend Hanna said they were drilling without Novocaine, and it was the only thing that you didn't really explain to us, but you weren't shocked when he said that about the trace. What the fuck, Steve? You're not doing this alone, you know. This isn't the time to start keeping secrets. You should have fucking told us!” Danny's voice almost to a low shout as he got in Steve's face. 

“All due respect, Danny, get your head out of your ass and think. We don't know the scope of this thing, yet, and until we do, I'm not bringing you in any deeper than you already are. Don't bitch that I don't trust you or some crap like that either. I didn't tell you what the rest of the code said because, unless we found him DOA, I wanted to respect his privacy and give him the right to decide whether he wanted the formal report in his record.”

“In his record? You say that like he's the one at fault. Jesus, Steve, is that what...”

“Danny, don't! You should know me better than that by now, but before you say anything else, listen to me for a minute and try to actually think about what I'm saying. Hanna said he's an agent, and I'm going with that until I find out otherwise. For him to have been put on as a member of the crew, he's most likely NCIS, and has to deal with the military on a daily basis. Because it occurred while on duty, it sure as hell would have been put in his record, and as messed up as it might be to say this, it would have gotten out. Most of the time, he probably wouldn't hear much about it, but there's always going to be one of those assholes, who's going to say something, or worse a commander who thinks that he can't do the job as well as someone else because he 'let this happen' and overlooks him for a job or operation he should be on. Whether you like it or not, it happens, and I wanted him to give him the chance to decide what he wanted to report. This will be hard enough for him as it is, and I'm not going to push him into something he can't live with. If that offends you, get over it!”

Pushing past his partner, Steve ordered the others back to the office with a sharp aside to Danny that he needed to meet with the governor and bring the woman up to date with what they knew so far, then head back to the office. Danny tried to pull him aside again, still looking ruefully angry, but Steve sent him off and returned to the house and the bedroom where the doctor was listening to the agent's breathing with a grim expression.


	3. Chapter 3

“How's he doing?” 

Tony kept his eyes closed as McGarrett spoke to the doctor, Ms. Ilikani - - something, trying not to frown when he couldn't remember her name. He usually didn't have trouble with names, but had been a bit distracted at the time, trying not to cough up a lung, so decided to cut himself some slack. 

He could still feel the adrenaline buzzing through his system – from his 'swim', his fight with the team trying to rescue him (and how dumb was that?), and his rescue... and knew that he was going to crash as soon as it returned to normal, and probably crash pretty hard. So the smart thing to do should have been to call the guy over, give him the lowdown, and Gibbs' number.

But – true to form – Tony wasn't all that good at doing the smart thing. Doing the right thing- he was all on top of, even before he met Gibbs. It was part of what had caused him so many problems during his early career with various police departments, but also part of what had made him a really good fit for Gibbs' team, right up until he chose the smart thing (following Director Shepard's orders to stand down) over the right thing (sticking to her protection detail, regardless of her orders, because a protection detail was a protection detail, damn it, and the people under protection weren't always in the best frame of mind to make decisions about what was best for their safety), and it cost Jenny Shepard her life. 

He couldn't even say that doing the smart thing, following orders and keeping his job, hadn't saved his life because when most all of the players involved (except him) had played a hand or two in the black ops game as assassins (who coulda guessed that included the straight-laced, power-suit wearing, Madam Director), the chances that he could have made a difference weren't that promising. Even with his very special, little ninja mossad partner at his side, their chances wouldn't have been guaranteed. On her own against a gang of street thugs, and he'd bet on the feisty little assassin every time, but against an unknown number of assassins, especially when their protectee had decided to slip the leash. Ducky had taken him aside to explain the underlying reasons for the Director's decision, when the older man had realized that Tony was struggling with “more than his own burden” of guilt over her death, and Tony could understand, or maybe empathize was a better term, with the Director's decision to go out in a blaze of glory instead of waste away from cancer. 

Given his own experience with the plague, empathizing was the easy part, getting over his own guilt for not doing the right thing – not so easy... especially knowing that she and Gibbs had once meant something to each other more than just a director and subordinate. One thing he'd always known about his boss was that he was never the one to leave - outside the brief trip to Mexico, which he'd long ago excused (when a guy lost his memory of the last decade and a half, you had to cut him a little slack), meaning to Tony that whatever their relationship had been, Gibbs hadn't been the one to end it and somewhere probably not so deep, the Senior Supervisory agent probably still felt something pretty strong for her. One thing no one could deny about Gibbs was that, even though he didn't talk about soft fluffy things like his feelings, he was intense about them; anger, disdain, protectiveness... love – Jethro Gibbs didn't do anything by halves, and Tony's decision to do the smart thing had helped end the life of someone that Gibbs cared about. 

Unaware that the his thoughts were playing across his expression for McGarrett to read the shades of emotion, even without the context, Tony jumped, startled when a hand dropped on his shoulder. 

“Hey there, Buddy, Doc tells me that you've got a heck of a medical history there.”

“Comes with the job.” Tony supplied with a shrug; it might have been more accurate, though, he thought, if he'd said it came with screwing up on the job. 

“Yeah, I've had jobs like that before. Problem is, Doc's worried that with your lungs “compromised”, you stand a pretty high chance of secondary drowning. She'd like you in a hospital bed for observation.” 

Although he hadn't asked it as a question, it was easy enough for Tony to see what he was getting at.

“The SeaHawk in port?” 

“Tomorrow, probably by ten.” 

“Can't take the chance.”

“This isn't something to play around with, Buddy, if your lungs are already as bad as she thinks, you could die here.”

“And if the crew on SeaHawk get a clue that you and your team saved me, thanks by the way for that, there's a hell of a good chance that your friend on board will. I can tell you, from personal experience, that they monitor the communication channels damn close, and it won't take ten seconds for them to figure out who dropped the dime on them.” Tony explained wearily, certain that McGarrett should arleady know this. 

“That's just part of his job and risk he thought worth taking to get you out.” McGarrett countered, but Tony wasn't about to buy a line like that. 

“It's part of my job, too, and adding to the danger he's in - is not a risk I'm willing to take.” 

Before McGarret could push the issue further, Tony asked, “What's your next best alternative, Doc?”

“Really, Mr. ...”

“Buddy.” Tony supplied with a grin. 

“Mr. Buddy, this isn't a next best situation, you are in serious jeopardy of pulmonary oedema causing pulmonary vessels to constrict in response to the hypoxia this can take minutes to days to develop. There's also foreign body aspiration, laryngospasm or bronchospasm to worry about worsen the hypoxia. Additionally, the fact that it occurred in sea or salt water is problematic as well. Sea water is hypertonic to blood (more salty). It can result in a state of osmosis that pulls water from the bloodstream into the lungs, thickening the blood, and leading to an increased load on the heart and heart failure. In animal experiments the thicker blood requires more work from the heart leading to cardiac arrest in 8 to 10 minutes...”

“Well...” Tony turned back to McGarret with a forced grin that he really didn't feel, as he cut the doctor off, “Well, it sounds like your next best option is to call a coffin maker, but hey, look on the bright side – death-bed statements from federal agents, complete with trace evidence, probably carry some decent weight in a court of law. Don't know about a military tribunal, but...”

“Mr. Buddy!” The doctor protested in an exasperated tone that Tony mimicked back to her, “Dr. Ika –“

“Kahananui …” She returned with a huff, “Iolani Kahananui.”

“I'll have to take your word for it.” Tony sighed, shifting uncomfortably against the pillows. “Look, I don't know else to say this, but I've pretty much been living on borrowed time for a couple of years now. Pneumonic plague wasn't my only close call, though, I think it may have been the most boring one: getting a lung full of powder from an envelope I was stupid enough to assume was safe just because it came through the agency mailroom, then spending the next seventy two hours flat on my back, no tv, no beer, no game, just me, a nurse, another agent with a cold who just couldn't resist hanging around, and these annoying blue lights.”

“I've been knocked out and chained in a sewer by psycho-serial waitresses, had my car blown up be guys who're supposed to be on our side, shot and shot at enough times that I've started looking for a bullseye taped to my back. More than a handful of those, I probably shouldn't have survived, and this one probably falls into that category too, because really, who else is stupid enough to fight the guys trying to keep him from drowning. Not that I'm trying to say that I want to die or anything, but I'm not going to try to save myself by pinning the target on someone else's back... so No! Okay, just no. If there's nothing else to do but wait and hope, then that's what I'll do: wait, hope, and give this fine gentleman my statement just in case. You've taken the ra-- evidence kit, and that's all I'll ask of you – just to get it where it needs to go to get processed. I'll sign any kind of waiver you want.” 

“How do your people even put up with you?!?” Doctor Kahananui threw her hands up in frustration. 

“My boss is a former Marine Gunnery Sergeant, relocated, but never quite retired. He's handled a lot tougher than me. I think he's even done a couple of rounds boot camp training, so he's dealt with A LOT tougher than me.”

“Fine, fine. There are some treatments... If you can stay awake and alert for at least 6 hours, without symptoms of pulmonary oedema, we can probably presume that your safe from at least that, though it may develop late, it usually develops within the first four hours. Continuous observation during the first 24 hours is critical. Then oxygen, the most feasible method for in home air is a CPAP unit providing continuous positive airway pressure, intubation for all practical purposes, but if you lose consciousness then intubation will be mandatory. Secondary drowning manifests as a rapid onset "pneumonia-like" flooding of the lungs with pulmonary fluids... if that occurs then intravenous treatment, plasma and advanced life support procedures may be necessary, including mechanical ventilation with high positive end expiratory pressure, or even extracorporeal membrane oxygenation for severe pulmonary oedema, and dialysis for renal failure...” 

“Okay, if you're trying to scare me, Doc, it's working.” Tony injected hoping to divert her gloom and doom scenario. He got the idea. Really. He did, but it wasn't going to change his mind, and... Really... didn't everyone know that focusing on the worst possible out comes was the best way to ensure that it would happen.

“Enough to change your mind, I hope?”

“Not a chance.” Tony grumbled feeling worn out from the explanation. 

“Okay, what do we need to keep an eye out for?” McGarrett finally chimed in.

Shaking her head, the doctor started reeling off a list of symptoms that probably should have been in a medical compendium titled “The Symptoms for Everything: A medicinal manual for finding the eleven common symptoms to every illness known to man,” and Tony leaned back, beginning to zone out. 

“Vomitting, nausea, weakness, lethargy, of course any difficulty breathing... headaches, fatigue, shortness of breath, a feeling of euphoria and nausea, rapid mood-changes, unconsc – … seizures, coma, priap – Severe hypoxia induces blue discolor – ion of skin, call– cyanosis … wheezing … … – piratory distress... … blue-tinging in the lips, fingers.... nailbe – “ 

Her words faded in and out, but Tony didn't think anything of it until he felt small hands jerk his shirt open and the still-cold disc of her stethescope press into his chest over his heart then lower over his ribcage. 

“ Call for – – bulance, NOW! … --oing into bracycardia.”


	4. Revelations and Reactions

Before he shut the MTAC door behind him, Director Vance warned the radio operators to silence behind him. He did not seriously suspect that either man would spread the news. 

Despite what he, personally, thought about Agent DiNozzo – the agent had been well-liked and his team respected enough that Leon would be given the time to break the news to his team before the gossip started. 

After closing the door behind him, Vance walked to the balcony and scanned the occupants of the 'bull pen' on the floor below. Watching them, he felt a surge of empathetic pain course through his chest as at their relaxed manner. Agent McGee was sitting casually on the edge of his desk, his arm bouncing and jiggling as it laid across the shoulders of the animated Ms. Scuito who was also chatting and laughing with the newly-arrived Agent David. 

Agent McGee had reclaimed his desk and settled in, earlier the previous week, even as Agent Lee was clearing out what was to be Agent David's desk, now that she had been was recalled. David had arrived earlier that morning, but instead of electing to rest and recover from expected jetlag of a flight from Isreal, Agent David had agreed to join Agent Gibbs on the flight to the Oahu Naval Base to retrieve the missing member of their team. 

A ping from the elevator drew Leon from his reverie as the latest arrivals stepped off the elevator: Gibbs walking with a relaxed stride that Leon hadn't seen in the weeks since the team was disbanded to allow Gibbs the cover and opportunity to covertly investigate the agency's mole.

Beside him, Dr. Mallard was smiling warmly at Agent David and beckoning her into a familial embrace. 

Seeming to sense his gaze, Gibbs turned to grimace at Vance, barely suppressing the glare that had been his most common response to Leon's presence during the past weeks. 

No doubt, the Supervisory Agent suspected that Leon would revoke his approval and arrangements for them to retrieve DiNozzo if he felt antagonized. Admittedly, Leon was considering revoking those arrangements, but regretably not for the reasons Gibbs probably suspected. 

“Agents Gibbs, McGee, David and Dr's Mallard and Scuito, please join me in conference room 1.” Leon ordered in as much of a non-confrontational tone, gently authorotative tone as he was able – noticing as he did how Gibbs eyes widened in surprise. 

ブレンキン 

Dr. Donald Mallard watched the badge rocking slightly on the table, even as the door slammed behind Jethro. 

Across the table from him, Abigail was curled into Timothy's shoulder sniffling and hiccuping from her half-swallowed sobs. 

On her other side, Ziva – though superficially appearing calm – was not fooling Donald with her seeming indifference to young Anthony's loss. Anyone, as familiar as he was with meditearanian skin tones, would recognize how pale she was, and that her eyes glimmered with what he suspected might have been unshed tears.   
By contrast, Timothy's calm seemed to stem more from shock than an internal sense of peace. 

But for all their visible pain, it was Jethro, whom he worried for the most.

His old friend had not blown up, as Donald could tell that Young Director Vance had expected him to; instead, Jethro had waited for the director to finish his announcement, then stood up, took off his holster, pulled his badge out of his wallet, and dropped them onto the table. 

His only words were an order to Donald, “Take care of them,” and to Director Vance an icy acknowledgment, “Director.”

Gibbs was out the door before Vance could even acknowledge the gesture. The words “I quit” implied in the soft thunk of the holster on the table and the metal 'scritch-scritch' of the rocking badge. 

“Is there any chance that Tony's just hiding on the ship, for some reason, and they didn't find him?”

“Highly improbable, at best, Agent McGee,” the director denied. 

“Not only are the men who searched the ship more familiar with the ship than he is, but DiNozzo has given almost daily reports, and has not to this point, given any indication, in any of his reports that there has been anything of note occuring on board: quite the opposite, in fact.”

“But - what if he stumbled on something last night?” Abigail responded plaintively. 

“Miss Scuito, I am sorry, but there were multiple witnesses to his last known appearance, and from their reports, Agent DiNozzo was not investigating … anything.” Director Vance replied in a manner that Donald thought was probably meant to be diplomatic, but only succeeded in raising Young Abigail's ire. 

“What was he doing then?” Abigail demanded, half-beligerantly.

Director Vance looked away, clearly uncomfortable at the question, until Donald intervened, “Director, if they are to come to terms with Young Anthony's loss...”

Director Vance nodded a reluctant acknowledgement of his point and proceeded to bite through the tooth pick that had at some point between the director's teeth. 

“I - … while I have not received the full transcripts of the witness testimonies, one thing their testimonies all agree upon is that, last night, Agent DiNozzo was … thoroughly inebriated.”

Donald felt his heart stop at the announcement. 

While the director's comment not offer a sufficient reason to hold out any more hope that Anthony had survived, his statement sufficiently confirmed that there was more than met the eye to Anthony's dissappearance. 

“That proves it!” Abigail retorted, proving Donald's long-suspicion that if there were anyone, whom Anthony would share his quite tragic past with, it would be Abigail. 

“Tony doesn't get drunk.” She explained at the director's dubious expression. 

“Miss Scuito, the reports were clear, whether you would like to believe better of your friend, or not...”

“Actually, Director, Abigail is quite correct. While he may present the facade of a fraternity initiate, Young Anthony has long been concerned with avoiding the alcohol and drug dependancy traits that both his parents sufferred from; as a result, he only drinks non-alcoholic beer at home or at Jethro's and orders virgin cocktails when he is celebrating.”

“And you're certain of this? Even with the recent loss of Director Shepard weighing on his conscience?” Director Vance prompted, doubt clear in his tone, but it was Timothy, who answered this time. 

“With all due respect, Sir, Director Shepard wasn't anywhere near as close to Tony as Kate was, and Tony didn't go off the deep end over her, and I know he felt guilty about her death, too. More than the Director's I think, a lot more; I could see it in his eyes when we went down to the morgue to … say good bye to Kate. There was nothing in his eyes quite like that when he and Ziva came back after the Director died.” 

“There is ...another … alternative, then,” the director posited, seeming reluctant, “it seemed, initially like the less credible prospect; however, if you are correct and DiNozzo did not drink, then the Captain's latter suggestion gains credence.”

“And that suggestion, was?” Donald prompted when enough time had lapsed that it was questionable whether the director would continue. 

“Captain Trent noted that DiNozzo has been displaying strong indications of depression, withdrawal, disordered thinking, isolationism, and given the additional guilt he may or may not be have been feeling over Late Director Shepard's death, it was sugggested that …”

“No.” This time the protest was from Donald, himself. 

“Dr. Mallard?” Director Vance asked with surprise, “Please, before you answer this, think carefully: can you really say for certain that Agent DiNozzo did not commit suicide... even taking into consideration his mother ended her live by suicide, as well?”

“Yes, Director Vance, I can. Even given the emotional stresses that, as you noted, he has suffered recently, first with Jethro's retreat to Mexico, then the dissolution of his relationship with Ms. Benoit, Director Shepards untimely passing, and …”

Donald paused before adding without truel malice, though he did not try to soften the noticeable slight in his tone, “even being sent away from his team, whom he considers family, and the location that he has come to identify as home... Yes, even so, I can say, without question, that Young Anthony would not end his life.” 

“On what basis?” Director Vance questioned, his expression as much flabbergasted as mystified. 

“Putting aside the fact that Young Anthony has fought his way back from more than his fair share of near fatal injuries, including the plague...” Donald began as he tried to decide how to break the news delicately. 

“Tony's in love.” Abigail murmured softly, a watery smile barely touching her lips. 

“Precisely,” Donald agreed, ignoring the shocked expressions of the others in the room as he shared a knowing smile with the young scientist.


	5. Dark Clouds, Before The Silver Lining Come

Steve paced back and forth outside critical care unit doors waiting for Dr. Kahananui to return. As of the last time they'd spoken, the agent was barely holding his own, and that report was almost instantly downgraded when the Doctor was called away from updating Steve on the man's condition by the eruption of beeping and buzzing alarms from the agent's room.   
That had been four hours earlier... after they'd brought the agent in, redressed for the ambulance ride in the spare swim suit and water shoes Steve kept in the car, and checked him in under the co-opted identity of Carl "Buddy" Turner, a highschool classmate of Steve's who'd moved to the mainland ten years earlier to work in his godfather's construction company.    
Checking his watch, Steve sighed and crossed in front of the doors again. He didn't want to leave the agent unguarded, but he was due at work in less than an hour and couldn't risk not being seen leaving from the palace if there was any chance that the agent was right and Sam's call out had been monitored.   
Pushing it to the last minute, he was about to turn around, and leave the agent in Dr. Kahananui's care, when the doctor, herself, finally came out, leading a small group of exhausted looking nurses and technicians.   
"What's going on?" he asked as he rushed over to her. "How is he?'  
"Stabilized is the best I can offer. … Mr. Turner… is a very ill man, Mr. McGarrett. If you know of any friends… or … relatives he may have in the islands, they should probably be called in."  
"Can I speak to him?"  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Turner slipped into a coma roughly an hour ago. We've intubated him; he's on a ventilator, and is receiving intravenous infusions of isotonic fluids as wells as chill peritoneal lavage to induce therapeutic hypothermia in hopes of reducing ischemic brain injury, hypoxia, and acidosis, but the next twelve hours will give us a better idea whether we've been successful."  
"How long do you think it will before he will come out of the coma?"   
Dr. Kahananui studied Steve for several seconds before she finally gestured him into the nearest seat. As she sat, she ran her hands through her hair, pushing it back out of her face wearily. After a moment, she dropped her elbows to her knees and clasped her hands between them studying her clasped grip before looking back at him.   
"I apologize for not being clearer. I am afraid that I had already pulled one and a half shifts before my cousin called me, and have had several long hours since."  
"I get it, Doc. It's been a long day. I just needed to know when to come back and try to get his statement. I'm afraid I can't stay the entire time here. It would draw too much attention of the kind we're trying to avoid."  
"Yes, I do understand; however, when I said that twelve hours will give us a better idea of whether we've been successful, I actually meant twelve hours will give us a better idea of whether he will come out of the coma."  
Aww, shit! Steve cursed with a huff of breath, but gestured for her to continue.  
"As I said, he is stabilized, and therapeutic hypothermia treatments have been successful in reducing the damage caused by hypoxia and acidocis; however, his lungs were already compromised by his… earlier medical history, and any undiagnosed traumas from the ... mistreatment suffered before his near drowning may have also been responsible for his rapid decline, resulting in the two cardiac episodes and cerebral hypoxia. Cerebral insult.... Brain damage... is not only a possibility, but a likelihood. Our primary diagnosis right now isn't whether or not there is brain damage, but its degree."  
Steve ran his hands over his own face with a frustrated sigh, nodding as he did, slapping his hands against the top of his thighs, trying to dispel the air of finality as he stood up. He'd been here before and knew that the only thing he could do was to 'get on with the mission' hoping the man would recover while composing the letter home to his family, in the event he didn't. Extending his hand to her, Steve gave the doctor an encouraging smile and ordered, gently, "Okay, do what you can for him, Doc. Here's my card,  I'll be back as soon as I can, but…"  
"If there's any change, I'll call you immediately." The doctor agreed, "And please, call me Iolani."  
"Thanks, Doc." Steve answered with his best "good guy, but taken" smile.   
  
ブレンキン  
  
Danny and Chin were going over the sign in logs for the evidence lockers from the day that the coke was supposedly repacked for transfer to the lab that was going to oversee its destruction, when Steve arrived, dropping his forced smile as soon as his office door closed behind him. Kono was first to approach him, asking for his signature on a report she had already filed the day before.   
Slipped inside the manilla folder, on a small sticky note was the message: "4 bugs: speakerphone, lamp, gov's portrait, lamp by coffee maker."  
Nodding his understanding, Steve traced his signature with the tip of his pin, then shut the file and handed it back, before turning to address the other two men, "Okay, where are we with regard to the evidence lockers?"  
"No luck," Danny answered with a slight grimace. "So far, we haven't come across any entries not accounted for in the IA reports."  
"Well, we had to know it wouldn't be that easy, didn't we? Keep looking though. Kono, any luck on the interview logs?"   
"No Steve," she answered casually. "So far everyone he's interviewed seem to be able to account for their whereabouts for the time when Officer Tennyson was killed. I've only gotten through twenty calls, so far though."  
"Okay, well give me half."  
  
ブレンキン  
  
As the team superficially researched the case, only vocally discussing the IA officer's case, while planning how to give the retrieved agent their protection without alerting whoever may have planted the bugs, how to verify who exactly that had been and how they had so quickly and easily gotten access to their office, and once Hanna came ashore, how to give him the back up he might need.... all through quickly jotted and erased notes on the notepad on Kono's smart phone... four frustrating hours passed far too slowly for Steve's liking before he was finally able to grab his jacket (and gun) and order them to keep working on the list of interviews, and call him if anything came up.   
"Why, where are you headed?" Danny asked catching them all by surprise, until they realized he was playing it up for who ever was listening.   
Although there was a slim chance that the bugs had been placed by someone else interested in their activities, if that was the case, the eavesdroppers would already know that they had retracted a federal agent, but not too much more than that. If they'd been placed by someone checking up on Hanna, and the timing was just to convenient for it not to be, there likely wouldn't have been time or reason to plant the bug in Steve's office, for the eavesdroppers to know that the whole team had overheard the phone conversation.  
"An old teammate's coming in on the SeaHawk, today, and needed to visit a dentist. After, if he's up to it, we'll probably hit lunch before I take him back to the base. If he's in port long enough, we might hit some bars, tomorrow night, if you're interested?"  
"What about the Tennyson case?"  
"If we don't get a lead before then, I want to check out the evidence lockers from head to toe and see if we've missed anything, but that can wait til Monday."  
"Okay, count me in."  
"Chin, Kono?" Steve questioned with a raised eyebrow. He didn't plan on letting them anywhere near Hanna's investigation if he deemed it too dangerous, but needed to lay a back story for being out of the office over the weekend and away from home at nights. Plus the right bars totally messed with eavesdropping equipment.  
"The wife's away for the weekend, why not." Chin answered with a nod; Steve knew she wasn't actually, but would be by the time Saturday Morning rolled around.   
"Don't think you're gonna leave me out, Brau. It's been a while since I've had some fun." Kono answered as  she handed him her phone back, with a quickly tapped in message, "Ur cars prob. Buggd 2."  
"Got it, I'm not sure he'll be up for your kind of fun, but I'll check what his plans are" Steve agreed with a grim nod to her phone. 


	6. A Silver-Lining,  Like the Breaking Day,  Comes

"Walt, I need a favor." The voice on the other end of the phone demanded with its customary gruffness, but underneath the familiar tone, Walter Skinner can hear a note of strained composure and suppressed anxiety.

"Name it, Jethro."

There really wasn't any question whether he would do it or not, much less whether it was possible or even whether legal for him to; both were irrelevant. He owed Jethro Gibbs too many unpaid favors on his own, and aside from that, he was certain that his friend - and occasional partner from the few joint-organization black ops he'd performed early in his career - would not ask for anything illegal or nearly impossible, unless it was worth doing on principle.

In either event, if there was any way in his power to do what Jethro was about to ask, it was a given.

"I need to get to Hawaii asap, tommorow if possible, but absolutely before the Sea Hawk pulls out."

The request was so simple that Walter knew it could only be the tip of the ice berg.

"And…"

Jethro was silent on the other end for several seconds.

"Jethro." Walter prompted with concern.

One thing he knew about his friend was that Jethro was never hesitant or undecided. He wouldn't have called if he hadn't known what he needed and that there wasn't any other alternative than imposing on his friend, and with that decided would have normally just laid it out and took the responses and repercussions as they came. A quick trip to Hawaii wouldn't have even registered on the scale of what he knew he could ask for, even he was working outside the scope of their organizations and trying to stay off the radar.

Silence during a phone call, when Jethro characteristically preferred say his peace and hang up often with very little or not time given for a response, was as telling is if Jethro had shown up on his doorstep, three-sheets to the wind, barely able to stand, with empty whisky bottles in both hands.

"Yeah… yeah, I'm here. Tell ya the truth, right now, I don't know where this is going or what other favors … I just don't know." Jethro's tone was entirely too calm.

It reminded Walter of the silence that falls after an air-raid siren before the bombing started.

"What's going on, Jethro? … No, strike that, where are you?" Anything serious enough to have rattled his unflappable friend this badly wasn't likely to be something he wanted recorded, and it wasn't unknown for his phone to be monitored, internally and externally.

"I just closed up the house, and getting onto Pendleton."

"Okay, meet me at the coffee shop."

"I'm about ten from there. How long will it take you?"

"Are you guaging that in normal drirve time, or Gibbs overdrive…"

"Don’t see why you'd ask that." Jethro answered with a barely there note of humor.

"Foolish of me. Should have realized you were talking Gibbs time, you'll probably get there first, but not by very long."

The connection cut abruptly with a something closer to Jethro's normal manner, but Walter's concern was not assuaged by the small glimpse of normality. Instead, he stared at the phone for several seconds … considering what his best options were, if it was as serious as he suspected it might be. It wasn't an ideal time for him to be taking time off from work, despite the fact that he had certainly accumulated enough of a backlog to allow even an extended sabbatical; however, timing wasn't truly his main concern as much as the amount and severity of trouble that Fox could get himself into while Walter was away.

Finally, deciding there was nothing for it, he hit the second number on his speed dial and waited for his agent to answer in a laconic tone, "Fox Mulder, oracle of all weirdness."

"I do hope you actually took the time to check the display before answering like that."

Fox was silent in response, but Walter could almost feel his smug smile radiating over the line.

"Do you have an active case you're working on?"

"Not anything that can't pressing, why?"

"Good, do you have a travel bag packed?"

"Always keep one in my trunk, but you still haven't answered why."

"No, I haven't. Get it and meet me in the garage in two minutes, but before you do put Scully on the line."

"Director Skinner? I'm afraid that I don't have my travel bag…"

"Don't worry about it, Dana. I'll explain later, why, but I'm not asking you to go with us, not yet at least. It should go without saying that you not take on any active cases, nor go out into the field without at least John accompanying you, until we return."

"Yes, Sir." Thankfully, Dana had more discretion than her partner and didn't press the question.

ブレンキン

Jethro drove to the Grey Goose bar at half the speed he usually drove, well-aware, after taking a corner too sharply and jumping the curb, that he wasn't as focused as he should be to drive normally.

His thoughts were spinning all over the place, reminding him of one of Abby's over-caffenated stream of consciousness babbles:

He'd been an idiot- giving up his badge and gun to Vance - when they would have, at least, given him access to the base in Hawaii, whether Vance gave him permission to go or not... He hadn't even waited to find out whether Vance would, certain that Vance would follow protocol, and where there was no body to be escorted home, protocol said that the 'grieving' team would not be permitted travel off site, especially not to investigate their teammate's death (or murder).

If DiNozzo was dead, it had been murder - regardless of what the ship's CO said. DiNozzo could play the fool, but he wasn't one and had long ago made a resolute decision not to follow in his alcoholic father's footsteps in any way. If Dinozzo appeared drunk, it would have either been an act to ingratiate himself with a suspect or someone drugging him. Didn't matter which, DiNozzo's disappearance afterward meant his suspect or suspects had gotten suspicious and done something to get him out of the way ... and Gibbs hadn't been there to watch his six.

That was why he'd turned in his badge and gun, in the end. It was either that or deck Vance and end up in the same place, discharged for cause and likely actively restricted from the Navy base in Hawaii, courtesy of Vance. DiNozzo should never have been on that damn ship - mole hunt or no.

Yeah, Jenny had died, and DiNozzo and David hadn't been there to watch her six… and yeah, they should have known better, but it had been her choice and one he couldn't really fault her for - if he'd been in the same position… hell, he had been in the same position after Kate's death, knowing that Ari was coming for him and one of his could be hurt in the crosss fire... he'd made the same decision, to face the man alone, not certain of or trusting that David would back him up.

Ziva had proven herself then… and many times since, despite the mistake, and shouldn't have been sent back under his father's dubious protection.

McGee shouldn't have been sent back to the basements with the twitchy, frustrating computer technicians, and DiNozzo absolutely shouldn't have been sent off on an agent abroad posting as the punishment everyone would perceive it to be, regardless of Vance's true reason.

ブレンキン

"Planning on getting out?" Walter questioned his friend softly as he leaned over the charger's window.

Jethro was slow to answer, barely acknowledging Walter with a slight turn of his head, "Depends."

Jethro's tight reply sounded so clipped and choked that Walter suspected that his friend had retreated into a deep-combat state of mind: emotions, opinions, expectations, and hopes on strict lock-down until circumstances and survival were secured.

"On what?" Walter questioned mildly, telling Fox to stay the car with a glance.

"On when the flight leaves."

"Thirty minutes after you lay out for me what you're planning to do in Hawaii."

The dry smirk Jethro wore was almost a mockery of the half-smile that Walter was more used to seeing, but didn't startle Walter nearly as much as Jethro's answer:

"Break onto Pearl Harbor, board the Sea Hawk, find out what happened to my -- missing agent, track down whoever's responsible for it, and bring the bastards to justice."


	7. With Seconds Ticking By

Ignoring Walt's concerned gaze and his companion's curious study, Jethro stared out the passenger side window, trying to figure out what could have gone wrong on the USS Sea Hawk. It was a useless effort, he knew but the only way he could focus his thoughts on Tony without spiraling into the morose string of 'whatifs' that he fell prey to whenever he let his guard down and let thoughts of Tony - the person - his agent, his partner, and... his friend...one of the few... Slip into his thoughts.

The 'whatifs' were just as unanswerable as the questions about what occurred on the Sea Hawk, but where questions about the Sea Hawk fed the driving anger that he knew - from experience - he could count on to keep him going -- the 'whatifs' threatened to drag him under waves of doubt, regret, melancholy - deep, riptide strong, and threatening to wrest away his already tenuous control over his normally tamped down emotions.

Walt's companion had finally seemed to get enough of his silent study, though, and Jethro's concentration on either line of inquiry fled before the sudden change of attitude in the younger man. The intensity of his gaze becoming so tangible that Jethro could almost feel it the moment the younger agent had reached the end of his patience. Even so, the young man's words were still a surprise.

"So, what makes you think that the 'skipper' (that's the common term, if I'm not mistaken)..." He paused for Jethro's nod of confirmation before continuing, "what makes you think that that the Sea Hawk's skipper is lying about your partner?"

"That's not actually what I said." Jethro deflected, nevertheless, impressed that the young man had made the connection so quickly.

"No, actually, you stated you that you intended to stage a one-man invasion of Pearl Harbor, board a heavily guarded warship, and imitate Rambo. Director Skinner responded with a rousing 'bou-ràh', and here we are packed into a vintage muscle car and headed to a hanger somewhere near Quantico because he was able to arrange seriously 'expedited transport' with a fifteen second phone call."

"Well, you caught most of the pertinent details," Jethro explained when the younger man raised a questioning eyebrow. "It's OoRa."

The agent's eyes narrowed, probably at the realization that Jethro had diverted the discussion away from answering the question put to him, but Jethro ignored the change in the man's gaze; he didn't spoonfeed his own agents, and friend or no, he wouldn't spoon-feed Walt's either.

Anyway, if he had picked up on enough to ask the question in the first place, he probably had enough to figure the pertinent details along the way and respond as needed- Walt wouldn't have brought them along otherwise. More than that though, despite Walt's unspoken endorsement of his agent, there was no way that Jethro would help spread the Co's specious accusations against Tony.

When he'd stopped by Ducky's to drop off his keys, Jethro had been more than a little startled to find the Dr. more than convinced that foul play had been involved, when he'd been expecting his friend to counsel him on the merits of coming to terms with the loss of his SFA. Instead, Ducky had informed him that after essentially badgering Vance to provide a copy of the skipper's report Ducky had found several noticeable discrepancies that anyone familiar with Tony's personality and methods would have pointed out. 

More suspiciously, the bulk of the discrepancies pointed to the slack habits of someone with years of service on the Sea Hawk, not someone with Tony's minimal exposure prior to being stationed on two different classes of ships in less than six months. In the first couple of months of their deployment, newbies fresh from the naval academy didn't tend to even learn the kind of hiding places he was reported to have been slacking off in from the first day, and they had the benefits of basic training.

Whoever was responsible for that report had harbored the mistaken assumption that NCIS, being an agency under the SecNav's purvue, would have been staffed by landbound sailors, admin, and probably thought it was a cushy posting for officers brats, kids of influential bureaucrats, and other navy cast offs. It was an assumption he'd run into before.

"Fox," Walt commented softly in a tone that Jethro had used on him on a couple of ops, calling him off, usually after his temper got the better of him. Later, sometimes days and weeks later, he'd find himself glad that Walt usually took the lead in those early missions and that because of it, he'd never ended up going too far.

Seeming to sense the direction of his thoughts, Walt chuckled, "and it works about as well on him as it did on you."

Despite himself, Jethro grumbled, "I listened... usually," only to realize the younger FBI had given the same response at the same time, but in present tense. He didn't need to look to know that Walt was smirking.

"And isn't the word 'usually' pretty critical to the truth of both your answers. Different demons driving you, but when it comes to going off the reservation, Jethro, Fox could give even you a run for your money right up to one-man invasions."


	8. No Novacaine Required

"Hanna, you old hoale," Steve greeted the former marine, with false exuberance, stepping forward and pounding the man's shoulder as he pulled him into a quick rough hug before pushing him back out with a hard push on Hanna's shoulder - a signal (that they were being observed in one way or other) he knew the other man should still remember. "How long are you here for?"

"A forty-eight hour lay-over, if you catch my meaning," Hanna answered, emphasizing the word 'lay' with a smarmy drawl.

"Oh sure, you may be out of luck though, I only know a handful bars full of girls with low enough standards to take you home, and it is tourist season."

"Save 'em for when you right hand cramps up, Man." Hanna laughed, shaking his head even as he followed Steve to his car and threw his duffel bag in. "I've never needed help hooking up, in fact the last one, I was with was a real knock out."

"You're telling me, tapped that after you left," Steve nodded, catching the reference to DiNozzo without difficulty. "Nearly put me in a coma when I finally got her into bed."

"Wuss!" Hanna growled; though Steve could read the concern the other agent in Hanna's eyes.

"Don't judge man, it was a major fight reeling her in." Steve answered by way of explanation.

"Can't say as I'd blame her." His friend tried to pass the line in a jovial note as they climbed in the car. “Considering what she was headed for, can't blame her at all."

Feeling as if he'd brought Hanna up to speed as much as he could, Steve signaled 'later' with a quick rotation a finger spelled 'L' against his left palm, and let his side of the conversation lapse into silence.

Whatever report the man was due to make (hopefully explaining the extraction and his presence on the ship) would have to wait for somewhere they could be certain was bug free.

Hanna nodded wearily and dropped his head back to the headrest.

After a twenty minute drive, Steve pulled off the Mamalahoa highway onto a side-street, noticing the car that had pulled off from the position it had held since leaving the base, consistently three cars behind, regardless of speed, stops, and detours. When they stopped at the next light, he rattled the stick-shift aggressively enough to get Hanna's attention and raised three fingers of the hand on the stick-shift to let his friend know how far behind their tail was. 

Hanna shifted his knee in confirmation and added a groaned, "how long till we get to this dentist friend of yours?" for good measure. 

"Not long now," Steve confirmed, thankful that he'd been able to call the favor in with Kennanakalua. 

The dentist had been a friend of his father for decades and had been known to take in and treat local kid's who'd gotten themselves into trouble, addicted, or hurt in minor scrapes, and sometimes not so minor - only asking them to pay it back in community service hours at the local clinic. Before his death, Steve's father had run interference for him with HPD, and after Steve had done what the could. At his father's funeral, the man had told Steve if he'd ever needed anything to come to him, but Steve had kept the marker (and added to it) just in case of an emergency. 

In his experience, there was always an emergency, and he'd not made it into the seals by not being prepared. 

Dr. Kennanakalua met them at the door. Thankfully having the common sense to recognize that they were playing for an unseen audience as Steve greeted him with their cover story, the dentist played his asking Hanna to follow him and asking Steve if he'd be alright in the waiting room, alone, "without a convenient nurse to flirt with" since he was only opening his office for Steve as a favor on his day off. Despite his words, he held the door open for Steve to follow Hanna through. 

Setting his bugged phone in a seat a few feet from the office's radio, Steve nodded as the dentist locked the door and sat near a window were anyone watching the room would see at least a shadow moving occasionally. 

As soon as they reached the dentist's inner office, Hanna demanded, "How bad off is he?"

"Doc isn't sure if he'll make it; he's in a coma now and next 24 may be make or break for whether he comes out at all."

"Shit." Hanna cursed dropping into the examination chair. "There wasn't any way to get him off earlier without breaking cover, but damn it, Man. DiNozzo's a good guy. The crap he went through…"

"Sam, don't, he understood the chances."

"People always say that…" Hanna retorted, "But…"

"No, Sam he knew. I don't know what kind of jobs are the norm for NCIS, but from what he said, he's had some pretty tough postings - even got dosed with the Black Plague. From what the Doc said, it did a job on his lungs and his chances for recovery. Even knowing that, though, he wasn't willing to risk going to the hospital because it might point the finger at you as our contact and his rescuer."

"Rescuer?" Hanna snorted, "Don't think that title really applies." 

Steve started to retort that he, Sam, and 'DiNozzo' all knew the chances that they might make it back from a mission, but still signed up for the job. Sam's hand was already waiving the comment off, thouh, so he changed the direction of his comment, "So, what's going on here, what are you looking into, and why the hell was DiNozzo a target? Seems to me that targeting the closest alternative to an MP on-board would be the quickest way to bring unwanted attention on whatever they were doing."

"Wish to hell I had an idea. Nettie got me on the ship after DiNozzo sent us an ID query for someone who’s a dead ringer in a contraband case. The ID checked out, but looking into it, our analyst noticed something odd. Sea Hawk's skipper has been transferring experienced and proven sailors with top notch records and replacing them with cast offs and last picks, whose ship board records immediately improve... and before you argue that there are skippers who take pride in turning trash to treasure, we have enough MP reports from the ports they've pulled into to know that their record on ship is the anomaly not a reflection of improved behavior. It's taken me almost this long to get into his inner circle, and the only thing I've been able to get on them is in relation to their strong arming DiNozzo. I haven't had the access to find out what he uncovered, but it must be big. Even before I came on board, they had someone on him constantly, monitored his every call out he made, and gave him hell off-shift. What's worse is they've gotten enough lackeys on board that no one says anything about it."

"They know?" Steve asked shocked. Light hazing and pranks on a new recruit was one thing but rape…

"Not the details, probably, but it's no secret that he's been roughed up more than a couple of times. The rest, I didn't even know until I got into the inner group that was assigned to 'keeping him in line'.

"Keeping him in line?" 

"Yeah, that was the skipper's buzz phrase for grabbing DiNozzo, getting him punch drunk, tossing him into a hold with the skipper and whoever made it to his reward list that week, waiting while they took turns with him, then dragging him back to his cabin."

"Christ," Steve cursed, while there was definitely enough to drag the skipper and at least a handful of sailors in, the scandal this type of trial would create would make the investigation an uphill battle, especially if DiNozzo didn’t survive, and worse, if they were willing to do this to intimidate a potential investigator, what ever was underneath was going to be truly ugly.

"What next?" he questioned, knowing the direction he'd like to take it, but it was an NCIS investigation, first and foremost. 

"Get the doc back in here to pull my tooth, then get me back to the base."

"What, you can't be serious?"

"Steve, we don't have a choice. Whatever they're trying to hide, we have to find out what's behind their assaults on DiNozzo."


	9. From Day's First Breaking

Tony's first thought on waking with the far-too-familiar feeling of his eyes being gummied shut from lack of use, the irritating and intrusive presence of a respirator tube making drool fill and ooze from the side of his mouth was a rueful recrimination that Gibbs was going to kill him for almost getting himself killed - again.

His second thought was a desperate wish that just once doctors would wait until they actually got the respirator tube out before trying to get him to respond, well that, and having eye drops ready to ease the process of actually opening his eyes. That, and it wouldn't hurt if any of the nurses and doctors could think to lower the lights before the inevitable light-induced migraine. But true to form, his doctors and nurses were intent on following their regular routine used to check the responses of newly revived patients, which Tony had woken up to enough times from close bouts with death to have memorized.

First, of course, were the fingers prying at his eyelids - uncaring whether he was ready to open his eyes or not, either unaware or unconcerned that the light was too bright and caused the constant dull ache to sharpen into a full, pounding migraine, complete with a nauseated stomach to add a little variation.

Next, came the customary overlap of questions and blurred voices made nearly unintelligible by the effects of whatever pain medications they'd last given him.

He answered as best he could, blinking his eyes as 'legibly' as he could, until they'd removed the respirator tube, then suppressing his embarrassment for his slurred words. Between the meds, a seriously dry mouth, a scratchy throat, and a headache that grew increasingly sharper every minute - they we're lucky to get any sort of response from him. What was new, however, was the increasing grimness of the doctors' expressions with each answer.

"Mr.Turner, if you understand what I'm saying, please squeeze your right hand."

Even though Tony recognized that words they were speaking, though accented, were English - whatever pain medications they had dosed him with had blurred their words enough that it took several minutes to figure out what they wanted. The important words (get squeeze and hand) were still there, though, so he dragged his hand up against the doctor's trying to close his fingers. Though they twitched and moved slightly, to his frustration, Tony couldn't get them to close. 

"Okay, that's okay." The doctor commented, reading his obvious tension. "Sometimes it takes a second attempt. Let's try again. If you understand me, please squeeze your right hand..." 

Gritting his teeth, Tony tried a second time and gasped a sigh of relief when his fingers closed in a loose circle. His doctor appeared less than impressed; however, and patted his hand, murmuring that they could try again when he was more awake. 

'Gee, well that's a resounding load of confidence.' He thought with a bite of petulance. 

The doctor continued his examination, asking fewer and fewer questions of Tony as his expression became increasingly mask-like. Finally, with a condescending pat on Tony's shoulder, the doctor commented that he would need a consult before he could decide on a course of treatment for Tony. 

"Tango arches spectrum..." Tony grumbled,and froze as he heard what he'd said. He had been trying to say 'Thanks for nothing'.

"Tang- ... Ta-an-go... T-aa-ng ..." Tony broke off and tried to correct the word repeatedly, "Ta-- ... ta-- ... ta-- ... ta--..." Each attempt fed his frustration, and though he wasn't aware of it until a nurse came into the room armed with a sedative, increased his heart rate enough to trigger the monitor's alarm. 

"Porcelain tornadoes orange plumber crown." He protested waving his hand at the sedative in an attempt to convince her not to inject him. "Tornadoes orange crown." He groaned hearing his own words coming out as nonsense despite his intent.

Unsurprisingly, she wasn't convinced by his argument, and within minutes, he felt himself drifting back into unconsciousness, mumbling, "porcelain tornadoes."


	10. Malasadas and Brains

Knowing Kono as well as he did, Steve had little difficulty reading from her expression that DiNozzo's outcome had been close to the worst case scenario without a word being said, which, in this instance, was an advantage: every time they managed to clear out the bugs from Five-O's offices, lab, and break-room, they would find a new transmitter the next time they returned to the office.

The issue had become so persistent that they were openly searching out the bugs and destroying them while loudly debating who and how someone on the Tennyson Case had managed to repeatedly get into their offices. 

That excuse was about to run it's course though, as Danny had a strong lead tying one of the evidence locker's security maintenance techs, Aka Kapena, to the once-seemingly-unrelated owner of a muscle car that had been parked just inside a blind spot the HPD's parking lot for three hours the night Tennyson had been killed. Danny and Chin had brought the man in, and judging from the panic-stricken expression the man had worn when they brought him in, Steve was betting that he confessed in under fifteen minutes. 

If he was right, he suspected the bugs would likely disappear after that; between the Sea Hawk pulling out of port soon and the seeming camouflage that the Tennyson case would no longer give - if he were the operative planting the bugs, the decision to pull the bugs would have been clear to him when there would seem to be so little to gain - especially given how diligent the team had been in disguising or avoiding any discussion linking to either DiNozzo or Sam, where it could be picked up. 

Dr. Kahananui, in particular, had been hard to keep in contact with, as they had constrained their contact with her to passing information back and forth with the doctor through small written messages passed between Kono and her cousin through quick meetups at the coffee shop closest to Kono's favorite jogging path after they had found evidence of bots embedded in their phone, email, and text accounts to flag any unusual activity related to contacting anyone working for or enrolled in any of the island's hospitals or medical offices. 

As a result, there had been very little information they had been able to pass since the last time Steve had spoken with Dr. Kahananui, when DiNozzo had slipped into a coma, and the Doctor's prognosis had been grim - suggesting that DiNozzo's next of kin be called in. At the time, brain damage wasn't just the possibility, but the expectation and the string of words that Kahananui had rattled off at Steve had stayed with him throughout the three days since DiNozzo had slipped into the coma: ischemic brain injury, hypoxia, acidosis, cerebral insult, cerebral hypoxia, undiagnosed trauma.... Kahananui had made it quite clear that she hadn't even expected DiNozzo to come out of the coma, and he hadn't until well past the twelve hour target the doctor had indicated as a critical period for the DiNozzo's return to consciousness. 

When he hadn't received the Dr. Kahananui's promised call, they managed to get Kono away from their watcher's observation long enough for her to meet with the doctor and discover that DINozzo had come out of the coma, but that he had not come away unscathed. 

"Hey," Kono called out holding up the bag she'd returned with, "Who's up for a malasada? 

"No, thanks, cuz." Chin answered, his smile tight and knowing. 

"I'll take one." Steve held up his hand for the pastry, wrapped with Dr. Kahananui's note, while Danny took up his off-the-cuff lecture to distract any potential listeners and watchers with his boisterous gestures as he questioned her logic on going running for her health then coming back with pastries dripping with sugar, over sweetened coffee, and calories, before taking one himself... drawing a spluttered response about the hypocrisy of his comments, which he easily answered -stating he'd never claimed to be interested in his health. If it weren't for the reason behind it, Steve would have egged it on, and enjoyed the show. 

When he'd finished enough of the pastry to read the message, he wasn't certain what to make of the Doctor's note: "Conscious, vitals stable, broca's aphasia - anomic." 

"Hey, Danny." Steve asked, flipping back and forth through the file he'd been looking at, "Where's that copy of Max's report?" 

"What? Uhhh, should be there." Danny answered, breaking off from Kono to join him at the desk. 

The report was right under Steve's fingertips, but he needed a reason to go down and talk to Max. 

"Shoot, I guess I left it at home last night. I'll go..." Danny offered. 

"No, that's fine. I'll get it. I want you in with Kapena. See what you can get from him with your lolo haole ways." 

"Steve, you forget I know what that means, now; and your just as caucasian as me, and as far as 'lolo' goes, let's not even get in to 'crazy'- I have the list, Steven, and if you really want to compare how crazy my actions rank against yours, we can anytime." 

"It'll have to be later, Danny." Steve answered, unable to suppress the grin at the act his partner was putting on. "You need to get in with Kapena, and I'm gonna get that report you forgot." 

"I didn't..." Danny protested, but the door closed between them before Steve could hear the rest of the act. 

ブレンキン

"Ah, Commander McGarrett, how can I help you today?" 

"Heya, Max, How's it going?" Steve answered, grabbing the Doctor's pen to add a note about the possibility of bugs and a request for information about the doctor's reference to Broca's aphasia. 

Max raised an eyebrow, but immediately took up the note and responded, "I am fairing exceedingly well, today, Commander. Thank you for asking. In fact, just this morning, while I was stopping by the coffee shop to purchase an apple-farro muffin with almond butter and a carrot-mango fruit slushie, which by the way, I highly recommend, I received email confirming that a paper I have written on hypoxicischemic brain injuries will be reviewed for publishing." 

"Congrats, man, that's great news. Can't say I know anything about the subject, but..." Steve offered, hoping the medical examiner was planning to segue into the topic he was asking about. 

"It is quite a fascinating subject," Max insisted, talking over Steve as he trailed off, "For instance, it is common knowledge that adequate oxygen is critical for the proper functioning of the brain. Should oxygen levels drop significantly in the cranial environment for four minutes or longer, there is a resultant significant loss of brain cells. After five minutes of severe oxygen deficiency, permanent anoxic brain injury can occur. The the more severe the loss of oxygen, the more serious and lasting the injury will be. Hypoxic-anoxic injuries (casually know as HAIs) are serious, life-threatening injuries which can cause cognitive disabilities resulting form the advanced death of brain cells, which interrupting electrochemical impulses and interfering with neurotransmitter performance. " 

Max's somewhat expectant expression (as if he'd believed Steve would automatically understand the ramifications of 'interrupted electrochemicals' and 'neurotransmitter interference') caught Steve by surprise but instead of interrupting, he just gestured for Max to continue and mentally started to build the vocabulary list he would have to look up later when he could get to a secure computer. 

"Neurotransmitters are the chemical messengers that carry messages within the brain, regulate body, functions, regulate sleep, influence pain and pleasure interpretation, control behavior and affect memory. In fact, most people with HAI experience short-term memory loss, and find themselves unable to learn new information which has just been presented due to the fact that the hippocampus, the part of the brain critical for processing new information, is very sensitive to a lack of oxygen. Another interesting fact is that persons with HAIs may become impulsive and indecisive and find themselves unable to concentrate or to focus on more than one task similar to how you might anticipate from a student affected by Attention Deficit Disorder. While each of the subjects, in and of themselves, are truly quite interesting, I find the more interesting impact caused by HAIs to occur in the areas of language use and communication. Take for example the occurrences of a phenomenon called Broca's Aphasia. Here come, let me show you." 

Pulling Steve over to a flip chart stand, Max tossed the charts up and over the back until he came to one of the brain with significant areas highlighted in pastels, before he continued, "This is the frontal lobe; here is the primary motor cortex, this is the central sulcus.... and THIS... this is the temporal lobe." 

Max pointed out the three areas, beaming at Steve, then tapped an area just above the last one he'd pointed out, explaining, "right there, just above the junction of the the frontal lobe, primary cortex, and temporal lobe is Broca's area, named after a French surgeon, Pierre Paul Broca. In 1861, Broca proved that an area of the brain controlled speech and language functions. Injuries to this area often result in language deficits, including anomia, a term which refers to difficulties in the use and recognition of words. As mentioned before, HAI's can impact memory and a person suffering an HAI impacting the Broca's area may find that he or she can not remember the meaning of even common words or context structures so that a word may be placed out of context..." "Sometimes anomia sufferers will use the opposite word for the word they intend, “hot” instead of “cold”; other times there may be no discernible connection between the word used and the word the sufferer intended to use. In addition to impacted articulation, word-finding abilities, and repetition, Broca's aphasics often also suffer from 'agrammatism', or a lack of the ability to use grammar, which are the rules which tells us how and where to combine words to form sentences that can be easily understood by others. Subsequently, Broca's aphasics can find it difficult to put words together into a recognizable sentence structure, frequently do not include common 'function' words relating key words to each other, and similarly may have difficulty understanding the sentences they hear. Additionally, Broca's area is shares such a close proximity to the areas of the brain responsible for producing speech sounds, HAIs affecting the Broca's area can also be responsible for affecting the sufferer's ability to speak. An aphasic's speech may be slow and require strenuous effort to produce even in short bursts. " 

"Do they know what's going on?" Steve asked after taking a minute to find his voice. He couldn't decide whether it would be better or worse for DiNozzo if he knew what was going on. 

"Oh, yes, comprehension of the situation is usually quite intact, although sometimes compromised when aphasics deal with complex subject material and has been known to cause aphasics to become anxious, depressed, and withdrawn as a result of the frustration they feel due to their inability to express themselves, which in turn can create further impairment as the left hemisphere of depressed individuals functions less effectively in individuals not afflicted with depression ." 

"Okay, thanks, Max." Steve answered, trying to wrap his mind around DiNozzo's condition. 

"Actually, thank you, Commander, discussing it with you has helped me realize that I would like to refine the focus of my paper a bit more before it's reviewed. I wonder if I can retrieve it. By the way, can I ask what your original purpose for coming down here may have been?" 

"Your report on the Tennyson case, can I get another copy?" Steve silently thanked Max for reminding him of the need to carry out the ruse of why he was there, in case the morgue had also been bugged. 

"It will be in your inbox by the time you reach your desk." 

"Thanks, Max." Steve answered before turning around and heading back to his office. 

Danny had better have gotten Kapena's statement by the time he got back, so they could put Tennyson's case to bed. Whether the bugging stopped or not, it was past time to get to the bottom of whatever was going on aboard the SeaHawk, and unless he'd misunderstood Max, they wouldn't be getting any leads from DiNozzo. 


	11. Chapter 11

Staring down at a crudely drawn map of the Sea Hawk's berth, Fox shook his head.

As much as he hated to admit it, the plan that 'Jethro' was laying out was - aside from the fact that it involved three lone, unarmed men boarding a heavily-guarded and armed U.S. Navy carrier, without thought of life, limb, or career to investigate the possible murder of a Federal Agent by the staff of said carrier - reasonably sound, and if things went to plan, stood a good chance of succeeding. In fact, though he was loath to admit it, if he'd been asked he would have come up with a plan for the same purpose, his would have probably been very, very close to the outlined plan... just without the added knowledge Jethro brought to the plan from having been stationed on a ship as an 'agent afloat'.

Fox added that last thought to his working profile of the man and more to the point, if unexpectedly, to his working profile of Walter Skinner... by simple association. Walter and Gibbs had clearly served together in some capacity, for at least long enough to have built the kind of semi-silent language of glances, half-heard grunts, gestures, and symbolic words from some internal/experiential narrative that gave the impression that they were finishing each other's ideas with only a handful of words spoken. Abundant evidence that the other man was a former marine and highly suggestive - coupled with their earlier discussion - that their service had been more in the realm of black ops, 'off the reservation' work, and one/two man invasions (given how readily Walter jumped on-board the idea, without a single qualm). 

The possibility of Walter Skinner having worked black ops had always been a credible possibility to Fox, even if Dana seemed to think their boss had been too much of a stickler for rules to have been involved in clandestine operations... but watching him settle into the role was something else entirely, and the layers his easy acceptance of the role added to Fox's profile of his boss were facinating. 

Finger's snapping in his line of sight, focused until that moment pretty-steadily on his boss's pensive profile, drew his gaze to Gibbs's amused gaze. Instead of commenting on Fox's too-long study of the marine, though, Gibbs v'd his fingers pointing at his eyes then down to the diagram in a silent 'pay attention' gesture. 

"Questions?" Gibbs's whisper was completely absent of any of the amusement still showing in hs eyes. 

"No, seems clear enough to me." 

"Let's go then."

Twenty-three minutes later, they were emptying a black carry sack of seemingly meaningless knick-knacks that Gibbs had gathered from the Agent Afloat's office and bunk. What Gibbs hoped to find out from a collection of folded gum wrappers, several sticky note pads, and a diary that seemed to be little more than a series of movie reviews, Fox had no idea, but there seemed pitifully little in the way of real evidence to be found, outside of the fact that they had quickly the found the traces of where surveillance had been then been removed. The collection had seemed meaningful to Gibbs, though as each one he'd discovered had made him increasingly grim and impatient until they were once again ensconced back in the supply shed, where Fox's reccommendation of retreating further from the carrier they had just illegally trespassed on, searched, snuck off without somehow alerting security was met with a grunt from Gibbs and a warning look from Skinner.

"Tell me what were looking at, Jethro," Walter requested mildly. 

"Case numbers," Gibbs answered pointing at the gum wrappers; "a book code of sorts, the key's the marine corp pledge," he contined pointing to the sticky pad, and "a personal message to me." The last was said with a nod towards the diary. 

Disbelief must have been written in bold letters, across Fox's expression, because instead of explaining, he tossed the diary at Fox and ordered, "Find the Sands of Iwo Jima. The next movie will be a dog movie. What's the title?"

Fox thumbed through until he found it and almost snorted when he saw the title, "Top Dog." 

A flash of something crossed Gibbs eyes, but before Fox could interpret it, the emotion was gone. 

"Keep going, in order. Read out any title of a dog or marine movie."

"Okay," Fox offered, beginning to accept the possibility that they might have gained at least something marginally meaningful.

"Light in Darkness."  
"Dusty"  
"Rules of engagement"  
"Ears open, eyeballs, click"  
"All the young men"  
"Severe clear"  
"Cujo"  
"Best in show"  
"Iron Will"  
"Far from home"  
"Fluke"  
"Eight below"  
"Benji the hunted"  
"Bolt"  
"Homeward Bound"  
"Bolt"  
"Homeward Bound two"  
"The outsider"  
"All dogs go to heaven."  
"Take a chance"  
"Tell it to the marines"

"That's the last one." Fox answered grimly, having picked up at least a superficial understanding of the message. 

"Okay, Jethro, I caught some of that: your boy stumbled into something. Cleared the sailors, or most of them. The problem's in the higher ranks, 'Best of show' he'd said, so the Captain, or higher. Then it sounds like he was planning to run, or get a message back to you, but didn't think he'd get away with it. But I know there were some parts, I missed; fill in the blanks for me."

"Basically, we're done here. The file numbers will refer back to NCIS case files, not any in his office." Gibbs explained the cryptic message, scooping the collection back into his bag as he did. "There are at least eight behind whatever's going on, but they caught him, and made certain the other's didn't cooperate or step in. He suspected they were going to get take him out of the picture before they got to port and planned to leave the ship. He left these behind in case, but we won't find him on the ship, either way. It's time to get out of here. "

"I have to agree, completely," an unexpected voice interrupted as a two men dressed in guard's uniforms stepped into the light, one from the doorway, the other out of the shadows.

Cursing under his breath, Fox edged closer to the side, hoping to draw the guards attention to him, possibly even split them up, and give Skinner and Gibbs a better chance of overwhelming the remaining guard. Gibbs seemed to have other plans, however, as he turned away from the guard who'd just spoken to them and smirked at the guard by the door.

"Callen."

"Gibbs."

"Tell me you know where my agent is." Gibbs ordered.

"We've got a lot to talk about," the other guard interrupted, "but now is not the time. The only reason you managed to get off the Sea Hawk is the Admiral diverting regular patrols so he can take on off-the-books cargo. Right now, we don't know what the cargo is, who his contacts are, or how isolated this is, so we need you to go, now!"

"Not until I know what's happened to my agent!"

"Jethro," Skinner warned softly, at the same time as the guard Gibbs had named as Callen warned, "Gibbs, we really don't have time for this."

Fox could have told them their warnings were useless, even as they heard the growls of truck motors approaching the supply shed. The other guard seemed to come to the same conclusion and growled as he looked out the shed's closest window. The truck's lights glowed through the thin curtain adding to the palpable feeling that their time was running out.

"Get your asses out the back, and if you can make it off the base without managing to screw everything up and getting yourselves caught, find a way to get in touch with the head of the Governor's Task Force, Steve McGarrett. They can fill you in, but be careful. They're being watched, too, so it's not just your own necks you're risking if..."

The man's lecture cut off abruptly as a flash of movement out of the corner of Fox's eye had him turning just in time to see Callen knocking Gibbs out with the but of his pistol. After flashing them a grin, as he and Skinner managed to catch Gibbs before he hit the ground, Callen explained, "I know how he gets when his people are involved; anyway, I own him one. When he wakes up, tell him that was for Bulgaria."

"Agent Callen," Skinner growled as he handed Fox Jethro's bag and took Gibbs's weight. "We are going to have a long discussion about this, later."

"I'm counting on it." Callen answered with a grin. "First round's on me, but really, it's past time for you to get going."

Taking a second to slip under Gibbs's limply hanging arm and even the weight between the, Fox paused to consider Skinner again. He never would have believed that his boss would have just gone along with their plan, but then, it seemed he was only just getting a glimpse of the scope of just how much he didn't know about Walter Skinner.


	12. Chapter 12

Silently glaring at the tray of 'nutritious breakfast options' he'd been given, Tony reluctantly picked up the oversized institutional plastic spoon and forced his fingers to curl around the larger than normal grip despite his shaking fingers. It took a disheartening about of effort to even lift the spoonful of paste that he suspected was a lint-starch replacement for cream of rice, but he eventually managed to get almost as much of the tasteless putty into his mouth as he had spilled down his shirt, which he was sad to say was probably an improvement.

As much as he despised the paste, at least it stuck to the spoon, for the most part. But god what he wouldn't do for an upgrade. Even the standard reconstituted powdered-egg omelets would have been a step up, but with the lingering weakness in his grip, asking for something like that... if he could have even gotten the message across... would have meant the humiliation of being spoon-fed. Being spoon-fed was one thing, when you could flirt with a pretty nurse or fit orderly, when you actually had enough control of your grip to feed yourself when you weren't being fed, and when the Hospital's protocol was for staff to give you the chance to spill down your shirt, your table, and bed before taking over.

Not that he could have requested it in the first place. Despite the psuedo-scientific voodoo the specialists had been spouting at him, complete with multi-colored diagrams, meaningless promises, and in comprehensible plans of treatment they were ordering for him - without really consulting him, outside of asking him to nod if he understood - Tony didn't have the slightest idea why his brain had suddenly decided to rewire itself so that he babbled like a demented teletubby. The specialist's on-going lectures about 'affected speech-centers' wasn't doing anything to clear his questions up, either, and Tony couldn't help wishing that Ducky or Abby were here to help him make sense of it.

As far as he could see, their 'treatments' weren't getting him anywhere either, and it almost wasn't worth the effort of putting himself through the so-called 'treatment sessions'. Almost... the only thing that had him even trying was the need to get at least some of his defenses back.

Charm, the gift of gab, and a once-fairly athletic body had been the only things he'd had going for him for most of his life, so those were what he'd built most of his defenses on - leaving him pretty much defenseless at the moment: it's hard to charm (or intimidate not that he often tried) someone when he couldn't even manage muster the physical presence of a house-elf and forget talking himself out of a situation when a request to be left alone came out something along the lines of "Concrete eagles falling turnips"; he didn't even have the comfort of knowing that he could defend himself if he'd needed to with his dominant side severely weakened by the 'non-stroke' they had fruitlessly tried to explain to him. Heck, even if he'd had his gun, there was no way he could expect to use it when he couldn't hold a stupid spoon. In fact, if anyone from the Seahawk did discover that he'd survived, the greatest defense he probably had going in his favor was his complete and utter uselessness.

As it stood, right now, outside of the trace evidence they'd already taken off of him and the clues he'd left behind for Gibbs, Tony's value as a witness was non-existent unless they started to accept vague nods at military hearings for Fleet Officers when - from what the specialist said - the doctors didn't even have certainty that he actually understood them instead of just nodding when it was expected. Not that he believed the Trent or the Admiral would leave any loose ends behind. His best and most likely bet came down to whether Captain and Admiral were arrogant enough to believe that he couldn't have possibly survived - not that it was an entirely arrogant presumption, without his helpful strangler, Tony probably wouldn't have survived, for what little good that was worth.

Still, it was enough, if only barely enough to keep him trying. Not quite enough, he decided, to make it worth finishing the grey slop they'd served him for breakfast.

He did try, though, when the speech therapist came to his room and badgered him for 90 minutes to repeat the sounds she made, as if the trouble had been with his ability to shape his mouth properly to mimick the sounds she was making. He could make the f-- ... He could make the sounds. He understood what she was asking even if she persisted on repeating herself when he'd gotten tired of repeating pointless exercise after pointless exercise, ad nauseum. He stuck with it through the mind-numbing 90 minutes of mouthing ba - da - fa - ga - ha - ka - la - ma. 

He kept up his forced smile as she tested him again on trying to write a series of words she recited and collected the scribbled list as if he hadn't seen the outcome as he'd been writing. He didn't really blame her, as it was obviously 'Hospital Policy' at work again, but it did make him want to curse under his breath at the obvious evidence that his 'condition' wasn't improving as they'd hoped. He hadn't needed more evidence of the fact, but regardless, the therapist was happy to provide it - drawing a wince as she began to lay out his 'options' for speech-assistive devices. After dragging a handful of yes and no responses out of him with regard to the devices he wanted to try, and checking the responses three separate times by switching the order of questions, the therapist finally left a very frustrated, impatient, and irritated Tony to himself.

Pushing the tray table away with quite a bit more force than was really necessary, Tony pulled himself over to the side of the bed and dropped his legs over the edge of the bed.

Ten minutes later, after his fourth trip between his hospital bed and the nearest wall, Tony was disgusted to admit defeat and drug himself back into the bed with shaking arms. It was infuriating. even just two weeks earlier he had been able to run twenty laps around the basketball court without getting winded, and now he could barely twenty feet without freezing up. This was pathetic.

The only silver lining he could think of that could be drawn from the mess - if there was one - was that ... at least ... he didn't have to face Gibbs like this.


End file.
